Sands's List of Things to Do
by zelasswilder
Summary: Sands wakes up in the middle of the night and goes through his immediate list of things to do. Fluffy drabble of slash. El/Sands. Rated for Language.


**Author's Notes**: I've been looking through old fanfics in the OUATIM community for any gems I had over-looked. I'm just now realizing that Johnny fandoms tend to be filled with a lot of (I hate being insulting but I'll use the word anyway) trash. Also, that fan fiction(dot)net is apparently a joke among the fanfic community. I wasn't aware of that… Huh. Kind of makes me rethink using it. It's convenient though, so I'll stick with it. I was inspired to write this because I wanted to add some not-awful work back into the fandom and I was making graphics for OUATIM. It's just a little drabble because I just can't seem to write anything longer for El/Sands.

* * *

It's so fucking hot. However, he can't feel the sun burning into his skin, so it's definitely still night-time. Alright, so he's up in the middle of the lava-boiling extreme heat of Mexico while the moon still hangs overhead to light the shit-hole of a motel he happened to be staying at.

There's one item checked off his list of things to do. He had five list items. What time it(vaguely) was in the world around him was number one. The first four items were labeled as 'questions to ask myself every morning to ensure clarity'. The last item actually required him doing something.

A pale thin hand lifted to his own forehead and he wiped sweat off his profile. The other hand slipped down under his thin, rough(and most likely stained with only God knows what) pillow.

His finger slid over and found the refreshingly cold barrel of his gun. A smile curled up his lips at the corners. Gun found and accounted for.

So, he moved onto numbers three and four which were normally solved in one moment.

Where was his Mexican and was said Mexican awake?

Abandoning his pistol, his palm resurfaced from the safety underneath the pillow and into the humid air of the room. Swiftly running a regularly traveled path, his hand kept sliding into an unoccupied spot where El normally slept.

El was awake but not with him.

Well, shit. Now he had to put another thing on his to-do list. Find El.

His nose scrunched together and he lazily reclined back on the bed. It squeaked unwilling underneath him, as if pleading to have its joints hydrated with a can of WD-40.

Sands broke into a grin. If El was lurking around silently, the best way to pull him out of his uncommunicative state-of-being was to be as freakishly annoying as possible.

Luckily for Sheldon Jeffery Sands, he was an expert at being a pain in the ass.

He let out a big breath before starting to bounce up and down on the bed. It wailed beneath him, on the verge of breaking from too many of its visitor's shenanigans. Sands figured he'd top off the bed's cries with some whistling to accompany the beat he had gotten the squeaks to create.

The tune was something American which would just be the icing on El's cake of things he found annoying.

He'd just got to the third verse and still no intervention from El. Well, he'd just have to make the song even more unbearable.

"Yankee Doodle went to town, aaaaaaa-riding on a pony!" Sands loudly spoke instead of sang. If he put any sincere effort into singing it, El would try and tell himself that Sands was trying to be musical. He wasn't, he just wanted to piss the mariachi off. The only thing more annoying to El than meaningless American jingles was when the jingles were sang loud and out-of-tune.

"Stuck a feather in his hat, and, that clever little fucker, he went and called it macaroni," Sands was adlibbing now.

Still no El. Okay, now this was just getting tedious.

"Yankee Doodle, keep it up, bitch," Sands patted his knees as he rapped it out, "Yankee Doodle dandy yo best mind the music and the step. And then yo be handy with them hoes-" suddenly a hand slammed onto his face and Sands almost yelped.

"Shut up," El's voice hissed angrily at him.

Sands pried the thick hand off from his lips and sent a grin up in the Mexican's general direction. "You don't like my song?"

"Do you not understand the meaning of the phrase 'shut up'?" El's voice was sarcastic and not giving Sands any warm or fuzzy feelings.

"No hablo ingles," he lifted his eyebrows up slightly above the rim of his sunglasses to accompany the innocent tone of his voice.

"Hablas _estupido_," El spoke slow as he leaned over him in an almost threatening manner.

"Tus hablo bitch-o," Sands liked to mock the Spanish language around El. It was just too damn easy to arouse any reaction from El when he did it.

El shoved Sands hard into the bed and the agent laid submissively on top of the covers. If he didn't push back, El got even angrier.

He sprawled his limbs out now and let a Cheshire grin take over his features. "What were you doing that was so much more important than getting some sleep beside your favorite piece of American pie?" the ex-agent's teasing question had an unrivaled amount of mocking inflection in it.

Sands could practically feel El's lips pull up over his teeth in an animalistic sneer as he replied with, "Something that's difficult to concentrate on while you're in here rapping American nonsense."

"Yankee Doodle Dandy is a _classic_," the blind man purred.

El hummed in reserved disbelief before his body slipped in beside Sands in the bed. The contours of his long legs fit against Sands perfectly.

"Sometimes I think you sing that garbage_ just _to annoy me," El mused. His breath was hot and warm against Sands's face.

"Nooo," the American smiled in El's general direction.

"Fuck you," the mariachi scowled.

El was back at his side and now Sands could check off number five on his list of things to do.

Sands lifted his head up slightly and let his tongue invade El's mouth as he crawled up on top of the Mexican.

El groaned, pulling away.

"What?" Sands growled.

"I should have known when you started pelvic thrusting on the bed that _this_ was what you wanted."


End file.
